"You have every reason to be," Mom said, "but you also have every reason to do this for you. You're the reason you're here." Renowned composers and musicians' names were etched in the practice room's wood paneling. I played many of their pieces, listened to hundreds of concerts, and now I sat in the very halls where some of them studied. That could be me, I thought.
“These are people,” I replied. I felt suffocated as we stood over the whole wedding reception. Surely Trent listened in somewhere. Kass’s lip twitched then she raised her champagne glass until the bubbly drink disappeared. “Half-people, my dear,” Kass said, hand her glass flute to a passing waiter. “They’re half-human.”
The American Midwest is a flat, dry landscape offset by the occasional farm or tree line border between properties. Speed limit signs decorate the interstate as the lane lines stretch on for infinity. You can see the stars at night. Voluminous clouds skate through the expansive sky during the day. Now, we travel in enclosed metal caravans like our pioneering ancestors before us. Only now, instead of pilgrimaging to a new life, we’re traveling to visit Aunt June or compete in a regional softball tournament.
Opportunities meet you halfway. You need to work toward them so you're ready for whatever they ask of you. Jobs, promotions, college acceptances don't happen for no reason; they happen because you're qualified and proved yourself up to that point.
People have told me multiple times that I try to do too much and need to be patient for success. One, okay. I'll try. Two, why? Why do I need to pump the brakes on ambitions I have?
"You never thought about moving?" "And leave this view? Screwdriver." "Huh?" "Screwdriver. Please." "Shane, how many boards do we need?" "As many as this boat gives us."
I still have to read through my first draft of Harvest. It's been nearly three months since I finished it but I don't know where to start. The obvious answer is page one, however, I don't know what I'm looking for.
The sun beat down on the backyard. Grass, which usually felt soft and soothing under our bare toes, felt scratchy and stiff that day. Maggie picked at the wood pile for the fire ring beside the shed. Her chipped painted nails chipped at the dry logs' bark. I brushed anthills away with the tip of a stick.
I can't be mad at myself for not doing one passion of mine when I'm doing something in the other, especially when the two cross-over. If you find yourself in a similar situation, remind yourself that you're still doing it, and you can always change focus again when the time and calling require it.
What is it you want out of life? Forty years from now or next week? As I write this, I want a bacon cheeseburger and to perform on a resident Second City stage someday. Both are possible -- one clearly easier to attain.